When toe dawn broke out we hitched them up Each dog in his special style, And we started on that long trail up, Full one hundred and sixty miles. It was cold as sin as we started to climb Into the teeth of the day And the trail grew rough, but we had the stuff, And were bound to make that Kay.

There were cracking whips and cracking ice As we broke through the frozen glow, And the lead dogs glared through the flying frost And leapt into the blinding snow. As the winds crept up to a serious force, We bent to the cold wind's sway Twenty huskies hard, and a Saint Bernard All bound for the next of Kay.

SO westarted out, and the dogs behaved For the first ten or twenty miles. The sun was bright on the tundra ice And the huskies even smiled. Fer there's nothing a husky loves as well As loping an open plain When the ice is bright and the sun is right And his paws still free of pain.

And as the sun began declinin', we felt all in control, And the country opened wide as wide And each of us felt his soul Grow out to the furthest frozen pine Past the edge of that frozen day. And the air was hushed while the huskies mushed Toward that Thirty Four of Kay.

We camped for the night on a high bluff bright As silver in a setting sun. And the dogs stepped out of their traces And we fed them, every one. Then they turned their tired heads away, Each to a corner lone, And turned around a time or two And settled with a moan.

"It eight and forty now", said Ma, And we're grateful for our luck! No bad breaks on the trail this far, Nor not a sled's been stuck! And as the moon was coming up A cold far cry did play Against the face of the rising moon Far short of the next of Kay.

It was lonesome as a midnight prayer And icy, bold, and wild, Like the call of the maddened wolverine Or the scream of the man-wolf child. And it cut our bones and it pierced our souls And did every man dismay, For an evil will was boding ill That we'd never make that Kay.

I have agreed to tend and feed and walk Chongo for Little Hawk while he goes off and does a men's retreat thing, with drums and loincloths in the woods or some such. I am look for tips and suggestions on caring for an imaginary chimpanzee with a bad attitude, who smokes.

Hi, Mom! We had a lightning strike on Wednesday night just seconds after I posted my last message. At first, I thought the lightning had fried my computer, but it only got the powerstrip into which the computer was plugged. That brave little powerstrip sacrificed itself to save my computer! I'm petitioning President Obama to have it given whatever sort of medal they give surge protectors who've given their lives in performance of their duties.

Well, at least I got the "obscure and foolish" part right. Dear old WIkipedia defeats Rapaire's obsessive obscurantism again. :

"3-7-77 was the infamous symbol of the Vigilance Committee in Virginia City, Montana. People who had the mysterious set of numbers '3-7-77' painted on their tent or cabin knew that they had better leave the area or be on the receiving end of vigilante justice. To this day the numbers appear on the shoulder patch of the Montana Highway Patrol, who say they do not know the original meaning of the symbol. It also appears on the flight suits of pilots of the Montana Air National Guard. Further, it appears under the bottle cap of certain varieties of Big Sky Brewing Company beer [1]. Various theories have been put forth about its origin, among them:

* The oldest interpretation is that it meant that the criminal had 3 hours 7 minutes and 77 seconds to leave town.

* Another common interpretation is that the numbers represent the dimensions of a grave, 3 feet by 7 feet by 77 inches.

* The sum of the number 3+7+7+7 total 24, representing the criminal had 24 hours to leave town.

* That it was borrowed from California or Colorado vigilance organizations where member number #3 and #77 were authorized to carry out executions.

* Frederick Allen, in his book A Decent Orderly Lynching, claims the number means one had to buy a $3 ticket on the next 7:00 a.m. Stagecoach to take the 77-mile trip from Helena to Butte. [2]

* Recently it has been suggested that the numbers have Masonic origins in that they represent the history of the Masonic vigilantes. The numeral "3" represents the three founding members of the Bannack Masons, the "77" represents the number of original Bannack Masons, and the "7" represents the number of the original vigilantes.[3] "

Actually, Shame, Jack Slade was a courteous gentleman most of the time. Mark Twain met him and you could read about it in the book "Roughing It" if you knew how to read. I will however leave you with this message: 3-7-77.

When I came into work at 545 this morning the thirty foot trench was wide open straight across the once intact floor of the shipping area, and laid bare down to about six feet, with large piles of reddish earth alongside it and a shiny new six inch pipe laid down neatly in the bottom. I must say when we get it in our minds to do something (under the powerful incentive of more rain and more flooding) we get 'er done in short order.

Now lookee here...I went and read up on that fella Jack Slade. And his wife Virginia. And the other guy Jules that he kilt and cut the flippin' ears off of. The guy was a flippin' frog so no wonder he kilt him, eh?

HOLY FLIP!!! One majorly tuff motherflipper that guy Jack Slade was! He took 6 flippin' bullets and 2 shotgun blasts and still come back fer more. Geez! I figger he might give my brother Don and me a tough flippin' go if we was ever to get in a argiment with him over dope or somethin'. But that ain't gonna happen on account of he got hung a long time ago.

Well, it was a good story. I like readin' about them kind of stories of blood and revenge and stuff. Better than Steven King if ya ask me, cos it's real history.

I hope you run inta some guy just like Jack Slade real soon, Rapaire. And I hope he don't like you one bit. Know'm sayin'?

"See, this what happens when you put yourself above the law. You get disoriented and forget where you have been."

That sounds a lot like Shane, Amos. He frequently gets "disorienTATed" (as he mistakenly calls it) and seemingly forgets where he has been, specially when being questioned by the police, the judge, etc....

But he doesn't put himself above the law. Perish the thought! He puts himself considerably below the law. ;-) That is, he has trouble relating coherently to any form of law at all, kind of like a snake would have trouble relating to cloud patterns and other stuff like that which happens at higher altitudes. His attention is elsewhere. Shane's attention is usually on something he wants, and that's about as far as his attention extends. Thus he gets "disorienTATed" (sic) and forgets where he's been.

I've been poking around at a kind of goofy social media site called mahalo. It's like a poor man's wikipedia, except they pay with pocket change for popular answers, and I am not convinced that it is worth more than a good blog essay, then I'll move on.

I answered a question today about how to cook a chicken, because the first person who answered it was so non-specific. She said 20 to 40 minutes to cook a chicken. What kind of chicken, a baby chick? You can't do a big bird in that short a time. Anyway, I answered with more information on size, time, type of container, type of oven, etc. She answered back that "in 30 years of cooking" blah blah blah. I still don't want to eat at her house if she's undercooking her birds that way.

I'm maintaining the high moral ground on all answers, not picking fights, not offering the coups de grace (or however it is spelled) when someone else fucks up and is just waiting to be knocked off. It's not a place to spend much time if you actually want to earn any real dollars (they pay off in their own dollars, and they scalp 25% off the top for their share).

MOM would be so proud of me. Finally earning a little pocket change. Maybe.

Well, that's another good reason not to live in SoCal. Eventually you'll wash away.

Boy, have I started a tempest by posting "The Yeller Rose Of Idaho"!! Seems like there's an earlier version, dating back to the 1840s, and "Soddy" House just ripped it off and changed a very few of the words. Here's the earlier version:

There's a spud bud out in Idyho That I'm tryin' not to see No other feller loved In quite the ways as me She threw a fit when I left her It like ta broke my heart My liver, spleen, and kidneys And prit near every part.

CH: She's the cutest little spud bud Thet Idyho ever knew Her eyes jist like rubies All red and bloodshot through You kin talk about your Clemmie And sing of Lucy Lee But the tater bud of Idyho Is tryin' ta find me.

Where the Portneuf River's flowin' In the muskeeter-filled summer nights She walks along the river Jist a-cryin' 'neath the moon I know her daddy's lookin' Since we parted long ago He's got a big ol' shotgun And the baby's comin' soon.

Weird times in the Surreal Corral. Last night the rains came down in sheets, something our sunny little village is not used to even though it happens once a year. This morning it was still raining. I was safely ensconced in the local library's meeting room running a training session on knot-tying for the edification of thelocal Civilian Emergency Response team members. Meanwhile, at the company, the lower floor where the manufacturing area sits was being flooded by the waters breaking through a collapsed six-inch drain pipe about four feet below the floor. The pressure of the combined waters was so great that when blocked by the bad drain pipe they backed up clear into the building. Several inches started building up on th emanufacturing floor in minutes, with no sign of stopping. A dozen people were bringing in huge pumps, manning buckets, and scrambling all through the night to move the water away, open up the floor, empty the pit, etc., etc. WHen I came in at 5:45 this morning it was down to wet-vacuums and brooms, and a long-term plan to open the floor and completely removbe and replace thirty feet of drain pipe. Exhausted sleep deprived volunteers were wandering around cleaning up and looking dazedly heroic as folks do whohave fought the storm through the night.

For me it was a normal morning, but a whale of a lot of action had gone on while I was out!

There's a yeller rose of Idaho That I'm agonna see No other feller loves In quite the ways as me She laughed so when I left her It pirt near ta broke my heart I promised to return agin And never more ta fart [sic].

CH: She's the cutest little spud queen Thet Idaho ever knew Her eyes are bright like rhinestones They sparkle like the dew You kin talk about your Clemmie And sing of Lorny Lee But the yeller rose of Idaho Is the onlyest gal fer me.

Where the Snake and Salmon are flowin' In the muskeeter-filled summer nights She walks along ol' Main Street Drummin' up trade every night I know thet she remembers When we parted long ago I promised to get my clap cured And never more ta go.